


spider silk

by ghostwing



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Gen, Lowercase, and these two DESERVE to be close friends, kirumi deserves more love, or at least interact more, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26437558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwing/pseuds/ghostwing
Summary: kirumi tojo has a habit of overthinking.
Relationships: Shinguji Korekiyo & Tojo Kirumi
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	spider silk

kirumi tojo has a strange relationship with empathy.

she sits on the floor in her lab, waiting patiently for it to swallow her whole. the floorboards creak like a greeting whenever she sets foot in here, as they do with anyone else. she's learned to identify her classmates by the way they walk; their paces, who tiptoes and who sways (the ultimate pianist, of course - akamatsu's _everything_ is driven by rhythm and song, even her footsteps) and who sweeps the halls like a phantom, casting shadows at night when the moon shyly peeks through the dusty windows. _i need to clean those,_ the maid notes, filing the thought away for later when she's less swathed in her own thoughts.

saihara often tells her that he can hear her overthinking. she hums, saying that it's something they have in common. he struggles to read the look on her face and it's comfortable, at least for her, in this protective shell of obscurity that comes with years of repression and overworking oneself to the core, until their very soul is threadbare and weary.

she simply does not have time to _feel_ , and this is normal. kirumi tojo does not like change.

the ultimate maid has strange opinions of herself. she feels as if she can only be loved if she plays the role of a mother.

she doesn't _want_ this, but it's fine. she never asked to be the sole source of comfort; of shouldering others' responsibilities to keep them from crumbling under the weight of it all, but it's fine. it is a maid's duty to follow orders and fulfil requests, so it's fine. she does what is necessary, and people love her in return. therefore, it is fine. a maid is not to complain upon being given such a simple task.

kirumi is not fine.

sometimes, she wants nothing more than to be left alone, in the privacy of her own lab with the floorboards to keep her company. she has committed every detail of this room to memory, by now - which ends of the tablecloth were becoming threadbare at the lace trim from where she had fidgeted with them so often (she had been meaning to fix it), the rococo era gilding on the ceiling in each corner, creeping like ivy on a trellis in gold leaf, and the cobwebs in the corner that she can't bring herself to remove. 

(if she sees any actual spiders around, she'll inform gokuhara, she notes. he'll be happy to give them a good home. _he_ will be happy. making people happy is the role of the ultimate maid.) 

she seldom has the luxury of solitude. the mantra she whispers to herself through gritted teeth in the early hours of the night becomes more routine than breathing, mechanically reminding herself as she puts others' needs before her own, even when her body aches from little rest and she knows it's her fault alone; _it is a maid's duty to follow orders._

the words begin to taste bitter on her tongue. they always have, but she's just now noticing the taste. how it lingers like the smell of blood, wine stains on dresses and fingernail marks on skin. she _hates_ things that linger, for she cannot control them.

kirumi tojo is afraid of losing control.

_kirumi tojo is perfectly in control._

not once does she let her mask slip, let the cracks split wide enough to make space for _anything_ to bleed through. she is sealed within herself and she is not breaking apart. a maid does not neglect her devotions, she does not allow anything under her careful eye to lay waste - and god forbid if she did, she would clean it up immediately. you cannot clean up a mess when you yourself are in a mindset that is cluttered and torn. if you are not composed, you cannot better your surroundings nor the people that look up to you.

kirumi tojo is _not_ cracking under her shell. she is composed, even if it does feel a little overwhelming right now and her lungs can't quite find the oxygen and she's a little dizzy and she needs to sit down and she needs to think think _think_ and she _can't focus_ and it's all so loud loud _LOUD and are those tears she isn't even crying whose tears are these what's happening she needs to get out of here she needs to go because her arms are burning her skin is hot from the pain and she doesn't know what's fucking happening everything is so loud loud loud loud LOUD-_

_-ru?_

_kiru._

_"kirumi!"_

a voice pulls her out of her own thoughts, and she gasps for air like she's resurfaced from under the water. there are hands on her shoulders, citrine eyes frantically searching her face for a sign of clarity; _grounding_.

there are no words exchanged as she is instructed to breathe, her classmate guiding her through his own, deep inhales, a little pause, and gently controlled exhales.

_in through the nose, out through the mouth._

the mere thought of the ultimate maid forgetting how to breathe is _incredulous_ , but she is too numb to feel any sense of shame right now. she'll mull over it later on, when she goes to sweep the halls in her own waltz-like motions and she can chastise herself as she works. it's better than bottling it up, at least.

kirumi tojo may be good at fooling herself, but not the others - not always.

when she moves to dust her skirt off and stand up, the bandaged hand on her shoulder pulls her back down. when she avoids her friend's attentive gaze and breathes an apology, _sorry you had to see me like that_ , he does not let her, and reminds her that none of this is her fault. even through the mask, she can tell that his face is pulled into a worried frown, concern etched into his eyes as guilt wells up in her own with the same choked look that the tears had - he thinks she's about to start crying again - kirumi sighs deep, and some of the tension is released from her chest.

_inhale, exhale._

"do not ap-" he stops himself, face going pale - momentarily, of course, but she still sees it. "do not.. _be sorry_ for having," another pause. "you know." kirumi nods.

a panic attack. they're not uncommon in a class full of seventeen year olds with the weight of the world on their shoulders, being told that their talents will shape the future; it's all too much for everyone, really. but she's thankful that he didn't _say it,_ in the way that korekiyo himself is thankful when she does not question his discomfort with the word ' _apologise_ ', and even more so when she avoids the use of it herself. _everyone has their demons,_ she said once, when he asked (what he described as a silly question) how she was so considerate of a trigger so obscure. she has her own, but she'll admit to that another day - her dignity is fragile enough as is, sitting on the floor of her lab like a child making a mess, _being_ a mess. this is hardly one of her bad days, mind you, since she doesn't even remember them due to dissociating so severely she forgets how to move.

kirumi tojo knows that she isn't alone in dealing with this kind of thing.

she does not let anyone see her crack beyond what illusion she forms that satisfies prying eyes. if it _had_ to be someone, she's glad it was kiyo - he's a dear friend, one that she hadn't quite expected to get along so well with. and yet, the two know exactly where to tread, so to not overstep where trauma lays rooted (like the overgrowth of foliage on the ground floor, the plants that dismantle structures from the bottom up where mother nature has taken back what was rightfully hers) like a landmine. even amongst the class, respect can be few and far between when it comes to delicate subjects. even if the questions are with good intent and a friend's concern, that does not stop them from leaving a mark where scars have formed. 

and scars bleed like a _bitch_ when they're reopened.

when you are as broken and weary as your dearest friends, it is less a trail of broken glass and more of a performance piece. it is a dance en pointe, balance and precision in every single movement, each sweep of the arm and pointed foot - with agonising practice comes an effortless display, but no ordinary person would ever _dream_ of understanding. 

kirumi tojo is learning to heal alongside the others. she is learning, for the second time, how to coexist.

that's why when she sits on the floor with kiyo's reassuring yet cautious touch as an anchor on her upper arms, and the panic attack leaves her drowsy as the days of overworking and _festering_ catch up to her, she doesn't mind the silence. she is usually the one comforting others, who need a grounding voice to coo hollow promises til they're half asleep and safe. the comforts feel scripted to her by now, so he knows not to bother.

kirumi tojo feels safe in this kind of silence.

the _sitting in front of her til his left foot fell asleep_ thing that the anthropologist had established eventually turned into a more comfortable side-hug; still on the floor, though the chairs and grand table were right there, _the floor was just better,_ _this was a floor kind of conversation_ and the remark made the blonde snort. he loved to talk and kirumi was more of a listener anyway, attentive to the weird and wonderful stories he had on anything and everything.

she could tell he was passionate about the subject of his talent, the way his eyes positively lit up as he stepped into his own talent lab for the first time ever, and she's certain that the childlike wonder that her friend possesses is very much a part of who he is, and it's sweet. she holds fond memories of her classmates in their havens, thriving in environments perfectly tailored to suit their talents. she is reminded of such things particularly in the evenings, when kaede leaves her door ajar. as the maid works, she will sway softly to the honey-sweet trills that the ultimate pianist plays, as she brings life to every key.

the loud, loud thoughts of what feels like _days ago_ melt away into the walls, streams going anywhere to a place she doesn't have to care about. the bandaged hand that pulled her out of the riptide was held out expectantly, and the maid was pulled up to her feet. _"you'll be fine,"_ he says, only smiling with his eyes when she gives her excessive _thank-you's, for everything and more,_ as he opens the door and brings her down to the dining hall to get some water and catch up with her classmates- their _friends_.

kirumi tojo is assured that she'll be alright, and for once she actually believes it.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first public fic !! i often write drabbles(?) like this but never finish them, so.. enjoy 💖


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